


The Soulmate's Guide to Pragmatism and Puke

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: The Soulmate's Guide and Other Stories [2]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Busking, But they're doing their best, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Modern Era, Poverty, Sick Henry "Monty" Montague, Sickfic, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Trans Character, Trans Monty (TGGTVAV), Vomiting, god that tag is giving me tooth decay, greek mythology metaphors, is it pda if they're in their own home, pain pals, wow that's a tag? huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: It’s their first winter all on their own, and things aren't going quite the way they want.  When Monty gets sick for the first time since they set out on their own, what's Percy to do?
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague & Scipio, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton, Percy Newton & Scipio
Series: The Soulmate's Guide and Other Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549114
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	The Soulmate's Guide to Pragmatism and Puke

_I've been kissed by a rose on the gray_

_(And if I should fall, would it all go away?)_

_I've been kissed by a rose on the gray_

_There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say_

_You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain_

Seal—Kiss from a Rose

***

The sun is bright and the water clear, both pleasant in the way that dreams tend to be. I bask for a small eternity on the shore, the sand perfectly shaped to my body, each grain velvety soft against my skin. The sky is an expanse of familiar blue, contained by the jutting lines of cliffs on either side, and the waves roll up the beach to my toes, not cold and not hot, inviting me in. My hand is in Monty’s hand, and as I hold it I look over, a smile on my lips. His hair is long and golden under the rays of the sun, his cheeks dusted red.

“Swim with me,” I say, and stand. I pull him up with me, taking a step toward the ocean. One step, and then two, and suddenly we’re up on the shelf of one of the cliffs, a hundred feet above the waves. It’s beautiful, enticing, but as I walk up to the edge Monty starts to resist.

“Jump with me,” I say, but when I look back he’s shaking his head. His face is white, terror arcing across his fine features as his hair begins to whip about his face, and when I look up again there are storm clouds pushing inland from the sea. I look down and I can swear I can feel the rushing motion of the waves in my gut, as if the very rock I’m standing on is being moved by the water below. It churns and churns and I’m too close to the edge, my toes curling into empty air. Monty’s hand is a vice grip, the only thing holding me back, and I feel suddenly seasick from the motion below me. Growing more and more dizzy by the moment I try to back up, my only tether to the safety of solid ground Monty’s hand, and I clutch tighter, tighter, tighter.

It’s not tight enough.

“Wait,” I say, but even as the word leaves my lips he jerks away, his hand slipping out of mine. I’m too far over the edge to be saved. The ocean rushes up to greet me, a mass of terrible, terrible water waiting to drown me—

—and just as I hit the surface I blink suddenly awake. 

***

It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I’m in a dark room, my arms reaching for Monty and my brain working at 12% speed. The beach was a dream. We're over a hundred miles from the ocean. It wasn't real.

Except the seasickness. All at once I realize there is something _big_ coming across the Bond. It so overwhelming that it takes me a moment to focus on it, and by the time I do Monty is already throwing up over the side of the bed, his nausea rocking through me like the waves that were just crashing against the cliffs. I hear vomit splatter on the floor.

Yeah. Okay. This is definitely happening. 

I blink myself the rest of the way awake, sitting up and reaching for our shitty bedside lamp, all the while resisting the urge to gag, myself. The light flares and I wince away from it. Monty doesn’t have the luxury—the moment he tries to move back his stomach lurches and he’s forced back over. He moans as I rest a hand on his heaving back.

“Okay,” I say, gently rubbing his spine. “You’re okay, just let it up…”

He doesn’t attempt to speak, but I get the sense that he’s rolling his eyes. Which, fair. Just judging by the nausea rolling across the Bond I’d be willing to bet that he has no real choice in the matter. He doesn’t need my encouragement to let it up. I can feel his muscles clenching under my hand as it soothes its way up his side and to the back of his sweaty neck. 

He’s warm. Fever warm. Caught-a-bug-and-it’s-wreaking-havoc-on-his-system warm. The kind of warm that begs for fever reducers and bed rest, both luxuries that we just can’t afford.

It seems as if Monty is of the same mind. “God, what a waste,” is the first thing he says once he’s done expelling his insides. “That’s, like… an hour of work’s worth of food, in a puddle on the floor.”

His nausea is down to a bearable level, so I gently pull him back from the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, love,” I say. “You couldn’t help it.” 

“Ugh. Still. What time is it?” 

“Dunno,” I murmur, touching my palm to his forehead. So hot. “You’re staying home today, though. It’s a sick day for you.”

He wilts, his arm warm against mine. Then, his voice small, he says, “…We can’t afford a sick day.”

“We can survive one day,” I say, and almost press a kiss to his cheek before realizing that would probably compromise us both. It’s true, we can’t _both_ be out of work. Even though work is just busking on street corners for me and running packages for the local co-op for him. Bills need to get paid, groceries need to get bought. 

I spare a moment to lament the fact that I’m probably compromised already, and also the fact that playing my violin with a sick Soulbond is going to be highly unpleasant no matter what I do. But it has to be done—we need the money. Then, lamentation over, I crawl over Monty to look for a clean patch of floor so I can stand up and go find some cleaning supplies. And some tea. And a bowl for Monty to puke in if he needs to. It’s… ah, four-thirty AM, and I’ve got a whole list of things to do. Fantastic.

***

The floor is cold when I finally find a clean spot to stand up. My socks do absolutely nothing to combat the chill, and I see Monty wince, drawing his feet up toward himself. I endeavor to get back in bed as soon as humanly possible. 

First, cleaning supplies. And tea. And a bowl. And the thermometer, that would also be good…

I’m in the kitchen, fishing around under the sink, when the nausea starts to ramp up again. “Oh, no…” Monty says, scrambling to free himself from the blankets. He goes over the headboard of the bed, avoiding the mess on the floor in his haste to get to the bathroom. 

He's not going to make it. I nearly hit my head on the counter as I attempt to grab the empty fruit bowl sitting on the counter top, _vomit receptacle_ suddenly on the forefront of my mind. 

I snatch it up and get to him just in time. We meet in the middle, between the kitchen/bedroom combo room and our little bathroom. I swing around and shove the bowl into Monty’s arms just as he starts to retch, bringing up the last of his dinner.

It’s swift, and violent, and then he’s sitting down right there on the crusty carpeting, his legs too shaky to hold him, hugging the bowl tight to his chest. I rest a hand on his sweaty forehead, letting him lean against me for a long moment while he collects himself. His nausea is hot and ever-present inside me. He’s really not feeling well. If there was any doubt that he was going to stay home today, it’s gone now.

I bite my lip and start to run my hand through his short hair, brushing it back from his forehead. It just… it came on so _suddenly_. He was fine over dinner, eating as animatedly as ever as he told me about his day, pausing every few bites to press a kiss to my lips. There was nothing across the Bond at all, not even a twinge of discomfort. Where did this _come_ from? Why is it _here_? Why did it have to show up _now_ , when we’re _just barely_ scraping by?

I don’t have answers. I wish I did, but it’s nearly five in the morning and I’ve got absolutely nothing but a sick Bondmate and a mess to clean up. I sigh. Then I get to work, herding Monty back to bed before I plant our cheap thermometer in his mouth and get to scrubbing.

His fever is… high. I frown down at the little device, wondering if it’s accurate. 103.4 seems like a lot. Not that I know much of anything—all I know about bugs and illnesses are from having them a lot as a kid. It’s not as if I’m studying medicine.

I clean off the thermometer and pop it into my mouth to test it against my own temperature. If it’s accurate then my temp should be… what’s the average of 103.4 and 98.6? God, it’s way too early to be doing math. I screw up my face, trying to think. I’m a musician, damnit—I work with time signatures, not with degrees. 

It takes me a moment, but eventually, I get it. Just in time, too—the thermometer beeps urgently and I slip it out of my mouth, studying the numbers. 101.2. Okay, yeah, that’s accurate.

“So what’s the verdict?” Monty asks, and I realize he’s been watching me the entire time. He’s got a small smile on his face, clearly enjoying the facial journey I’ve been on. 

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m pretty sure you’ll live,” I say, flicking his forehead. He leans back, the smile only getting wider. “Just gotta drink some fluids and try not to puke all of them back up. Think you can do that?”

“…I can try,” he says, and the slight hesitancy in his voice kills me. I lean over the bed so I can wrap my arms around him, holding him firm to my chest. He comes without a fuss, nuzzling into my shirt.

I hold on until I have to let go in order to make some tea. We have a peach ginger one that I like and that Monty says tastes like spicy dirt—I figure the ginger will be good for his stomach, even if he makes a face about it. Which he does. Literally the moment I hand him the mug.

“Do I have to?” he whines, pouting out his lip. 

I rub at the headache trying to press up behind my eye. It’s five-thirty in the morning and I’m supposed to get up in two hours to get out on the streets. I want to take care of Monty, not a grumpy five-year-old. “Yes,” I say, nudging the mug toward him. “You have to.”

His nose wrinkles, but he raises it to his lips. He manages to get a third of it down before he gags a little into his hand and I take it away to set it on the bedside table.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask.

“Just come here and don’t go anywhere,” Monty says. He pats the bed beside him until I consent to climb in, maneuvering my long limbs carefully around his body. Once we’re twined together I give in and press a kiss to his forehead, promising that I won’t leave. It’s a promise I won’t be able to keep forever, but for now… for now, I can do that much for him.

***

I don’t recall falling asleep, nor do I recall dreaming. I’m laying there with Monty curled up in my arms, watching the clock tick, and then I’m starting awake to the sound of my alarm ringing in the pre-dawn light. I blink, my arms tightening around him.

He grunts. Awake, then. “Did you sleep at all?” I ask, yawning.

He shakes his head against me. “I tried. Didn’t work.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs a shoulder, pushing a little closer to my side as he does, seeking out my warmth. It would be cute if his next words weren’t, “Was kind of afraid that I’d wake up super disoriented and puke all over you, honestly.”

My face twists. “Ugh. Okay. Many sincere thanks for not doing that.”

His laughter follows me as I crawl out of bed, going about my morning business. He’s still feeling pretty bad, but I realize that I don’t feel that great, either—part of it is all the stuff coming across the Bond from Monty, but another part of it is the early morning and the stress of the last few months, all bubbling to the surface. I pause in the middle of brushing my teeth, closing my eyes so I can take some deep, calming breaths. 

“I will not have a seizure,” I say to the mirror. “I will not have a seizure. I will be fine, and get lots of cash today, and I’ll be able to pick up some pepto on my way home and I won’t have a seizure and I’ll be able to take care of my Bondmate, my _verus amor_ , my love. Everything will be fine.”

I’ve almost convinced myself of it when Monty moans and I realize that his nausea is spiking again. I gag out the toothpaste on my tongue, leaning on the counter and swallowing hard until he’s done puking. Then I wash out my mouth and go back to him, offering some water in a cup so he can rinse out his mouth. I study him while he swishes it around and spits it into the fruit bowl. He’s so pale, his skin clammy and his hair dark against his forehead… I rest my hand on his cheek, worried. About him, yes, always… but also about the fact that we’ll be relying on my meager income until he’s feeling better. I feel his frustration like it’s my own. We don’t even need to say it out loud—this is going to be a struggle. He is Hercules, tasked with twelve impossible trials; I am Megara, his wife and Pain Bond, cursed to share the Pain of the great hero as he fights the most terrifying of all unearthly beasts and strains his mortal body beyond human means. 

“…This fucking sucks,” he says, once his mouth is empty, voice hoarse. I can’t help but agree. It’s a succinct summary of the situation.

***

I stick around for as long as I can, eating a fiber bar for breakfast and putting on my four layers of winter clothes as slowly as possible. The last thing I do is lace up my boots and pull on my fingerless gloves, after pressing my hand to Monty’s cheek one last time. 

“You’ll call if you need anything?” I ask. He nods. He’s still in bed, hasn’t moved at all in the time that I’ve been crisscrossing all over the tiny apartment. He promises me that he’s just going to try and get some sleep. “Okay,” I whisper. I give in once again and press a kiss to his forehead, and then, with a sense that the gray skies outside the windows are pressing down on me, I’m out the door.

It’s snowing lightly when I make it down to the front of the apartment building. I slip and slide in the slush coating the streets as I make my way to the town center, dodging the waves of half-frozen sludge that the cars driving past kick up onto the sidewalk. My violin is heavy on my back, as is the weight of my desire to turn around and go back to Monty, and the knowledge that I can’t. 

We need this. 

I _hate_ that we need this.

I make it to midtown, my hands tucked deep in my pockets, and manage to find an overhang to settle under and unpack my violin. I take my time tuning it, the cold biting into my fingers, and then I begin to play.

Even with all the layers I’m wearing I’m soon shivering in the cold, my stomach unsettled with Monty’s nausea. My head aches, and I feel like lying down in the street and going to sleep. The melodies come easy, though, and that, at least, is a relief. I play everything I know—Bach, Ke$ha, sea shanties and old slave songs that Scipio’s men have taught me… I try to lose myself to the music.

It doesn’t quite work, not the way it normally would. The cold is edging into my bones, stealing my focus from me. It doesn’t help that there are fewer people out today due to the weather, all of them shuffling past with their hoods up and their hands hidden in their pockets. Few slow and fewer stop. I’m utterly miserable.

I intend to stay out all day, like I normally do, but I hardly had anything for breakfast and lunch is entirely unappealing and I know I can’t push myself too hard on an empty stomach. The absolute last thing I need is a seizure out on the street. I’m worried about Monty, too—I hate leaving him alone like this. He’s only thrown up a couple of times since I left, but that’s a couple of times too many and I just… I _just_ …

I scrub at my frozen face, my bow hanging limp from my fingers. “One more hour,” I say to myself. I can do that much. I’ll give it one more hour, and then I’m going home to my _goddamn_ Soulmate, and no force in this world can stop me.

***

That last hour… it feels like a week. Not just a week. A week in limbo, in purgatory, in the glacial realm of Dante’s hell. It drains from me every last bit of my will to live and then some. And, to make it worse, no one even stops for me. 

After an eon, however, I’m able to pack my violin away and head for home. I shuffle down the sidewalk with my head down, trying to send good vibes Monty’s way. It doesn’t make much of a difference in the nausea swirling inside me, but I like to think that he knows that I’m thinking of him.

I’m just down the street from our ratty apartment when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I fish it out with nearly numb fingers, looking at the little screen, expecting Monty. 

It’s not. It’s Scipio. God, when was the last time we talked to him? I’m too tired to recall. 

“Hey, Scip,” I say, answering the phone before it stops ringing. I slide into the lobby and stomp the slush from my boots, holding the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”

“ _I heard that your boy isn_ _’t feeling well_ ,” Scipio says in his thick accent. “ _I_ _’m bringing over some herbs from the garden. Is there anything else you need_?”

I lean against one of the walls in the little lobby space of the apartment building, grateful for the feeble warmth of the air flowing from the vents. “Uh. Let me think,” I say, scrunching my face up. I hate asking for anything, especially from Scipio, since he’s already done so much for us, but we’re in a tight spot. I think about our empty fruit bowl. What’s good for an unsettled stomach? Bananas? 

“Do you think you could get us some bananas?” I ask.

“ _Sure thing_ ,” Scipio says. “ _Bananas and_ …?”

“Just bananas,” I say, huffing a little laugh. I’m exhausted. I don’t think I could stand up straight if I wanted to.

“ _Are you sure? I could get some ginger ale too. Supposed to be good for an upset stomach_.”

“Uhh. Yeah, I guess so.” I wince, thinking about our meager savings. “We can pay you back—”

“ _No. These are gifts. Freely given. Anything else_?”

I shake my head, though he can’t see. “Nothing I can think of.”

He pauses a moment. “ _Percy_ …”

“What?” I ask, unsettled by the tone of his voice.

“ _It just seems to me that you_ _’re struggling awfully hard for not much gain_.”

God. Is it really that obvious? “It’s just until the symphony gets back to me about my audition tape. Then I’ll have a steadier job and we’ll be fine. We _are_ fine.”

There’s a waver in my voice as I say the last sentence, and I wince, closing my eyes. Scipio is silent for a moment before he says, “ _I_ _’ll bring some mint tea, too. And some of Georgie’s cookies. He’s getting real good at baking, have I told you_?”

“Thank you,” I whisper, wiping at my eyes.

I can nearly feel the serious look Scipio is wearing as he says, “ _I would do this for you any time, you have but to ask. We have to look out for each other, Percy. It_ _’s the only way_.”

***

The apartment is quiet when I reach it, and nearly the same as I left it. Monty is in bed, lying on his side with his back to the door, his chest expanding with the slow breaths of sleep. The fruit bowl is on the table beside him, empty and clean. I check the thermostat by the door as I struggle out of my coat, attempting to stay silent.

It doesn’t work. There’s not enough space for all my long limbs, and I accidentally elbow the wall, startling Monty awake.

“Ah, my knight in shining armor returns,” he says, looking back toward me with sleepy eyes. He takes a deep breath before rolling over and reaching out toward me.

“Just let me change,” I say, now prying off my boots. As I do I gauge the nausea crossing the bond and determine it to be at a reasonable level. I check his fever to see if it’s gone down before I settle in, and he seems to be in good spirits as I put the thermometer in his mouth. 

102.5. Still high, but a little better than before. I blow out a sigh. Then I give in to Monty’s grabby hands and climb into bed with him, tucking his head under my chin.

“I missed you,” he says into my chest.

I rest my cheek on his hair. “I missed you, too,” I say.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he says. He’s already drowsing, sleep tugging him back down. I let him go, reveling in the warmth of his body.

Scipio comes a few hours later. I slip free of Monty’s octopus arms to get the door, thanking him profusely for the groceries he brings. It’s more than we agreed on, but he is highly offended when I suggest again that we might pay him back so I accept the gifts. Monty heads into the bathroom while Scipio and I are sitting in the kitchen together, and I wince as I feel his nausea hit the tipping point. I’m just about to stand up and go to him when Scipio holds up a hand, pushing me back into my chair.

“I’ll take care of him, just relax,” he tells me. I nod, grateful. Then I lean over the table with my head in my hands for a good long moment, taking stock of myself and the situation once again, telling myself that I didn’t have a seizure today and I won’t have one tomorrow, I’ll be okay and we’ll get through this _just you wait_. I take a deep breath through the worst of the nausea, swallowing hard, and then it’s over and Scipio is helping Monty back to bed and giving him some ginger ale for his stomach and…

God, I wish I could believe that everything is going to be okay.

***

I wait until Scipio heads off before I position myself beside Monty on the bed, sitting at his side. I intend to ask how he’s feeling, but what comes out instead is, “You don’t… you don’t regret leaving with me, do you?”

He’s silent for longer than I’m really comfortable with, chewing his chapped lip before he says, “I… can I be… honest?”

“Of course,” I say, my palms starting to sweat.

It takes him a while to gather his thoughts, turning them over in his head before he speaks. I try to keep my mounting nerves in check. 

Finally, he leans forward. “I just… I _want_ to be someone who doesn’t miss living a life full of luxury. I want to be strong in the face of adversity and I want to be good for you. But it’s so hard, Perce. It’s—it’s so hard, and I want a drink, and I feel all the time like I’m about to slip up but we don’t have the money for that and we don’t have health insurance and your meds and I just—I don’t want to _live_ like this—and just— _fuck_ —”

I swallow, hard, tears rising in my eyes as his face crumples. It’s been one of the worst days of my life, almost as bad as the day of my very first seizure, but I know he’s had it even worse. My empathy for him is breaking my heart. I can’t help it—I wrap my arms around him and hold him as tight as I can, trying to muffle my sobs.

I don’t do a very good job. “Hey,” he says, prodding me in the side. “You’re not allowed to cry, stop that. You’re gonna make _me_ cry, and no one wants to see that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, tucking my face into his warm neck. I just… I love him so much, and I’m so glad that we’re out of his father’s grasp… I just wish that a life without Henri the Senior didn’t have to be like _this_ , that the better option wasn’t nearly as shitty as the bad option. I wish I could ease his pain—that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Ever since we were little kids, ever since our very first scraped knee. That’s it, that’s all, just _ease his pain_.

It _tears me apart_ that I can’t.

***

I can, however, watch over him as he sleeps. That helps, I find.

The tears have dried, and my muscles are comfortably loose, my head propped up on my fist. Monty is curled up with his back to my chest, hugging a pillow. With my free hand, I rub his back, up and down and up and down, to the rhythm of my heartbeat. It’s slow, peaceful.

Until he shifts, his stomach making an ominous noise. I nudge him until he blinks awake, then he groans. “I’m _tired_ ,” he says.

“I know,” I respond, pressing my hand to his upset stomach. He stiffens, but it’s only for a second—his body goes limp as he puts his trust in me. I rub gentle circles, careful of the ache. 

We stay like that for a long moment, suspended between the waves of nausea. Then his stomach gurgles again and he gags into his hand and I’m forced to release him.

Ten minutes later he comes back smelling of toothpaste and flops into bed. “I’m done,” he announces as I brush his sweaty hair back from his forehead. 

“I know,” I say, a little confused. He doesn’t need to tell me how he’s feeling—I can sense it over the Bond. 

He shakes his head. “No, I mean I’m _done_. I’m not going to throw up again. It’s over.”

“And you know this how?” I ask, amused.

He shrugs, his eyes slipping closed. “I just do.”

I want to question him, to figure out how he’s so sure of himself, but before I can he lets out a content sigh and nuzzles against my shoulder, falling into sleep just like that.

***

He’s right. He doesn’t throw up again. How he predicted it I fear I’ll never know. 

The fever breaks just after midnight, the heat radiating from his body cooling to a normal temperature. I fold him close and he hums in his sleep. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Does his subconscious know that I’m holding him? Is he dreaming of my arms around him? I sure hope so. My heart feels full, a heady contrast to the misery of my day, and I remember once again why I love Monty. Why we ran away together. Why we chose this life. And I know, I _know_ it’s hard, but… we’re together, and that’s all that matters.


End file.
